Murder, He Wrote
by Sid Mc
Summary: "This is a whole new side of you, Sam, a whole new depth to your geekiness. I mean, I knew you were a nerd, but this—this defies all expectation." Josh learns of Sam's secret hobby, much to Sam's chagrin.


SPOILERS: None

SPOILERS: None. This ties in with MS-related episodes, but only in the vaguest possible terms. Actually, no, it doesn't tie in with any episode. Fluff. Pure fluff. 

DISCLAIMER: All _West Wing_ characters and situations belong to Aaron Sorkin, but as long as we all keep our mouths shut, he'll be none the wiser.

CATEGORY: Josh/Sam conversation. Rated PG-13 for the occasional swear word. 

FEEDBACK: Is delightful and delicious. Please send to: leicestersq@hotmail.com.  


AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is another weird little conversational vignette that hit me out of the blue (cf. previous vignette, entitled _Even-Steven_). There's no discernible plot, no particular rhyme or reason, only a bit of (non-slash) banter inspired by one of those crazy ideas that you don't question, you simply write. 

THANKS: As always to Lisa, for using the power of the 'roos for good and not evil. And as ever, to Liz, with a dash of 'Voulez-Vous' and a side of Prickly Pear margaritas. 

____________________ 

MURDER, HE WROTE

by, Sid

____________________

"'Sup?" 

"Wha—Oh, um, hey, Josh." 

"Whatcha hidin' there, Sam?" 

"Hiding? I'm not hiding anything." 

"Then explain, please, the sudden, dire need to hide your notebook under a pile of memos." 

"Um." 

"Real subtle, compadré." 

"I was just, ah—writing." 

"Yeah, the pen and paper in your hands were my first clue." 

"Shut up." 

"So, what are you writing?" 

"Nothing. And get your feet off my desk." 

"It's not nothing. It can't be nothing, Sam, or else you wouldn't have felt the need to hide it from me." 

"It's just...stuff I write to help me relax." 

"Is it porn?" 

"No! God, you are such a twisted bastard sometimes." 

"Is it a love letter?" 

"No." 

"It is, isn't it? It's a love letter. It's a love letter to Ainsley Hayes." 

"Josh, we have been over this and we have been over this..." 

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You're not into Ainsley. You've actually started to convince me. Okay, so it's a love letter to—CJ?" 

"...No." 

"Is it to—hey, you blushed." 

"I did not." 

"You so did!" 

"I blushed at the implication that—at the suggestion that I—Anyway, you're wrong." 

"It's not to CJ?" 

"It's not a love letter! Jesus, Josh!" 

"Come on, just let me see it. I can read it, maybe give you some pointers. A dash of the old Lyman charm to dilute the Seaborn...um, whatever the opposite of 'charm' is—" 

"Repugnance?" 

"Don't be so hard on yourself, buddy. Anyway, a dash of the old Lyman charm will give your letter a bit of pizzazz, a bit of panache—" 

"For the love of God, stop!" 

"I was just trying to help." 

"Josh, go away." 

"What are you writing, Sam?" 

"Why is this so important to you?" 

"It's noon on a Sunday. It's been a highly stressful week—" 

"Funny how that happens after the President discloses to the world that he has Multiple Sclerosis." 

"—and I actually have some spare time." 

"So you wandered into my office to harass me?" 

"Pretty much. So what are you writing, Sam?" 

"Poetry. All right, Josh? I'm writing poetry." 

"Poetry? Like, um, hearts and flowers and stuff?" 

"Yes. Okay? Now, unless you can find something to rhyme with the word 'eternity', go away." 

"Sam Seaborn, Poet Laureate of the West Wing. Are you comparing CJ's legs to a summer's day?" 

"Josh." 

"'Cause I know you're a leg man." 

"Go away now." 

"Wait—wait a second. You're lying to me!" 

"What?" 

"You're doing that thing. CJ's right! When you lie, you start doing that thing with your eyebrows." 

"I do not." 

"You do! This is hilarious." 

"Go away, Josh. Strangely enough, it's not as easy to relax with you hassling me." 

"I'm not trying to make it _easy_ for you, Sam. What are you writing?" 

"Why do you care?" 

"At first I really didn't. Now it's like a game. Now I care." 

"You won't leave until I tell you, will you?" 

"Nah." 

"Josh..." 

"I've got two hours till my meeting with that GOP schmuck—" 

"Brassel? That GOP schmuck?" 

"That'd be the one. And I'm perfectly willing to wait here till then." 

"Oh God." 

"You're fun to torment. Donna's more fun, but she's not here, so you'll do." 

"It's really not worth all this build-up, Josh." 

"I'll be the judge of that." 

"Okay. God! Okay, it's nothing, it's stupid, it's—it's just fafinaghh." 

"What? Falafel? Foosball? What the hell did you just say?" 

"Fafinaghh." 

"Speak up, Sam, or I'll be forced to take drastic measures." 

"_Fanfic_! All right? Fanfic!" 

"I still don't understand—what the hell is 'fanfic'?" 

"It's—" 

"...I'm waiting." 

"It's—" 

"...Waiting patiently here." 

"It's kind of hard to—" 

"...Waiting not so patiently now." 

"It's like...okay, you know the Internet, right?" 

"Hmm. It _sounds_ familiar." 

"Okay, okay, ha ha. So you know people put up all these fansites, right?" 

"Sam, I know the GOP main page, I know the Democratic Party's main page, I know whitehouse.gov, I know impeachbartlet.com, and I know cosmpolitan.com. I've heard rumors of a Josh Lyman fan page. That's the extent of it." 

"Cosmopolitan as in the women's magazine?" 

"Donna bookmarked it. It's kind of fun. Lots of good pics, very informative. Anyway, what's a fansite?" 

"Oh, this is _so_ not worth the build-up it's getting." 

"It's your fault for your astoundingly inept tactical evasion." 

"A fansite—you know, something _fans_ put up. Say you like a certain actress, say—that chick from that show—" 

"The tall one?" 

"Yeah, with the great legs. So, you like her and you put up a website for her." 

"With you so far." 

"People do the same for tv shows. They put up pictures from the show, info on the actors, all that jazz." 

"That's kinda cool." 

"And then they write stories about that tv show for other fans to read." 

"Well, that's just sad." 

"It's not. It's fun. It's entertainment, Josh." 

"Why would someone do that?" 

"For fun. For the hell of it." 

"I mean, who is that _sad_?" 

"..." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah." 

"Well, that's—" 

"It's fun, Josh. You didn't like the way an episode ended, you write your alternative to it. You want this character to pair up with that character, you write that story." 

"Sam, you sound so—so _girly_. Please tell me you write for a nice, manly show. 'Hercules' or—or 'Hill Street Blues', or something like that." 

"'Murshumsmrote'." 

"What?" 

"'Mursherote'." 

"You said—that sounded like—"

"I said, 'Murder, She Wrote'." 

"Yeah, that's what it sounded like." 

"Shut up." 

"So...Wait—'Murder, She Wrote' isn't even on the _air_ anymore. Is it?" 

"It has a devoted fanbase." 

"Don't get all pissy with me. I'm not the one writing stories for a tv show about an old woman solving mysteries, that's not even on tv anymore!" 

"See, this may have been why I didn't want to tell you." 

"Sam, that's just _so_ sad." 

"It's really not, Josh." 

"Why?" 

"Because it's fun! Escapism, Josh, ever heard of it?" 

"But—'Murder, She Wrote'?" 

"I seem to recall your obsession in days of yore for 'Knight Rider'." 

"Yeah, but that was cool! With the car, and the talking thing, and the chases, and the David Hasselhoff-badass guy. There were no little old ladies investigating murders in New England bed-and-breakfasts with washed-up has-beens as guest stars." 

"I always wanted to be Agatha Christie." 

"You worry me, Sam. Quite frankly, you always have." 

"Oh, lighten up. Raymond Chandler, then, Arthur Conan Doyle. Someone cool—although, you're a freak if you think anyone's cooler than Agatha Christie. Mysteries, Josh! I wanted to write mysteries!" 

"I never knew that." 

"Yeah, imagine me not telling you." 

"So...you've written this stuff before?" 

"Eh, I have a few stories out there. I told you, it's relaxing. It's nice not to have to _worry_ about the impact of every damn word. It's nice just to tell a story in the hopes that it will entertain someone, instead of in the hopes that you won't piss off the people who can make your life a living hell." 

"Well...Hmph." 

"What?" 

"Just thinking." 

"Will you go away now?" 

"No. I'm intrigued." 

"Oh God. I just wanted to sit here and take a break and write my story in peace, Josh!" 

"Yeah, but you've intrigued me now. Can I see your story?" 

"Let me think. Um, no." 

"Seriously. I won't make fun of it." 

"Right." 

"Is it—is it any good?" 

"Well, not to brag, but I've got a few people asking me for the next chapter. Persistently." 

"You sound so smug. Hey! Wait a second. Oh my god, that is universally stupid, Sam! You're writing mysteries under the name Sam Seaborn? What kind of morons are these people that they haven't made the connection between you and the White House?!" 

"Jesus, Josh, thanks for pointing that out. Why didn't _I_ think of the fact that my name on an item that is, for all intents, and purposes, _illegal_, would be a problem?" 

"Oh God! The legalities. That would be copyright infringement, wouldn't it? Leo would hit the ceiling, Sam." 

"Your faith in me is touching, Josh. Really. I write under a different name and I post it from home, for God's sake! Calm down!" 

"A different name?" 

"Yeah; Al. My email is NormAl@lineone.net. Get it? Norm, like my middle name, 'Norman', and then—?" 

"I get it." 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" 

"This is a whole new side of you, Sam, a whole new depth to your geekiness. I mean, I knew you were a nerd, but this—this defies all expectation." 

"Go away." 

"So tell me what you're writing now." 

"No." 

"Come on. Too late to turn back now." 

"It's called—it's called 'Murder in the West Wing'." 

"...Okay yeah, it's a good thing you used that pen name there, buddy." 

"It's about an annoying Deputy Chief of Staff who gets killed rather gruesomely, but Jessica Fletcher has too many suspects, because _so_ many people would have had the motive to take a whack at this guy, and so—" 

"Seriously?" 

"Yes...God. No! Not really, Josh, Jesus." 

"So what _is_ it about?" 

"It's about Jessica Fletcher going on a tour of the West Wing with a bunch of senior citizens, and while they're in DC, one of them—a rather annoying, egotistical septuagenarian whom I have recently christened 'Josh'—" 

"Seriously?" 

"You're fun when you're like this. No, Josh, not seriously! One of the guys gets murdered and Jessica has to figure out whodunnit. You know, basically the plot of _every_ single episode of 'Murder, She Wrote'?" 

"...Can I read it?" 

"That would be 'no'." 

"Come on, Sam!" 

"No, Josh." 

"I can't believe you're setting it in the West Wing." 

"Believe it. My last one was set at a prestigious New York law firm." 

"Exorcising some demons there, Samuel?" 

"You could say that; the murderer turned out to be the ruthless, bloodsucking head of the firm, and his accomplice was his evil and seductive lover, Liesel." 

"Sounds an awful lot like 'Lisa'." 

"It does, doesn't it." 

"Wow. Remind me not to ever piss you off. You'll vilify me in—what was it you called it? 'Fanfic'?" 

"Too late." 

"_What_?" 

"You've already been written in, Josh. My second story—'Death on a Triscuit'. You were Jacob, the smarmy salesman who Jessica suspected, but who was actually innocent." 

"Well...at least I was innocent." 

"Only because you turned out to be too chicken to axe the victim." 

"Jesus." 

"Forget about it, Josh. It was right after we'd had that stupid argument on the campaign trail. I needed to vent, and that was a safe way to go about it." 

"So I'm guessing Toby's been written in." 

"Three times." 

"Jesus." 

"Most spectacularly as the arrogant, deadpan, hostile speechwriter for a mayoral campaign. 'Tony Seegler'; I was kind of proud of that one." 

"I'm starting to get a little frightened." 

"I called it—'The Drop Dead Incident'." 

"You killed him off?" 

"Nah. I don't go that far. Making him a condescending putz was good enough for me." 

"...Why are you laughing?" 

"The look—the look on your face!" 

"Oh, thank God. You're making this up." 

"I didn't say that. No, I just meant I'm vastly amused by the look of horror on your usually-smug face." 

"This is more than a little bizarre, Sam." 

"Some people have music, or books, or whatever. I have this. It relaxes me." 

"Fanfic." 

"Fan fiction. 'Fanfic' for short." 

"And you're an expert on the lingo?" 

"You pick it up along the way." 

"Oh my God." 

"I should do this more often—drop little bombshells on you. It's damn funny." 

"So...who else has been written in?" 

"Oh no. That's all you get." 

"Come on." 

"Look it up yourself." 

"You know I'm too lazy to do that!" 

"Yeah." 

"So tell me. Who else has been written in?" 

"Well...Ainsley was written in once as a bossy lawyer from New York who gets soundly whipped on a television panel. Hmm...I felt pretty good writing that one, too, especially making her a Northerner." 

"'Vengeance is mine', quoth he. Go on." 

"Leo was a four-star general wrongly accused of blackmail. Um, the President was the head of a little liberal arts college in Massachusetts. Some of these are in the same stories, you understand." 

"Who else?" 

"My sister—" 

"You wrote Sabrina in one?" 

"Yeah, she was the cool, intelligent writer who got pinned with the murder of her slimy ex-boyfriend, only to be vindicated by Jessica." 

"I'm guessing this is shortly after Sabrina was ditched by her slimy ex-boyfriend, Kyle?" 

"Oh yeah. He died a particularly grisly death, too. The brother did it." 

"The butler did it?" 

"No, the brother! The brother did it." 

"Oh, so you had to write yourself in." 

"Safer that way. You know, saves me having to actually _do_ it." 

"Who else? CJ?" 

"...Uh—" 

"You did! You wrote her in!" 

"Just—just now, in this one. Shut up. Tell her and die, Josh. I mean—seriously. I'll write another story and I'll kill you off." 

"All right, all right. Let me read it and I won't say a word." 

"You'll make fun of me." 

"Probably. But I do want to see it." 

"Josh—" 

"Come on, Sam." 

"Well..." 

"Come on." 

"Well..." 

"All right! 'Murder in the West Wing'. Here we go..." 

*** 

"Sam?" 

"Yeah?" 

"This is—this is really—" 

"Shut up, Josh." 

"No, really—it's good! It's, well, _edgy_ would be the wrong word for, you know, 'Murder, She Wrote', but...it's pretty cool, actually." 

"You think?" 

"Yeah. It's good, Sam." 

"Well, thank you, Josh." 

"I'm laughing on the inside, but seriously...it's good. You're right, it's fun." 

*** 

"Sam, that was a blast." 

"Seriously?" 

"Seriously! You gotta ring up Angela Lansbury. You gotta sell her this story." 

"Ah, go on." 

"Sam, it's good. It kicks ass. I mean, I know it's just a little whatchamacallit, but still, it's good." 

"Seriously?" 

"Seriously!" 

"I'm not sure what to say." 

"'Thank you, Josh.' That's what you say, Sam." 

"Well, um, thank you, Josh." 

"No problem." 

"And you won't tell anyone?" 

"Everyone would get a kick out of this, but okay, no. I won't tell anyone." 

"Thanks." 

"No prob." 

"...Josh?" 

"Yeah?" 

"You wanna see my stuff for 'Cagney and Lacey'?" 

THE END


End file.
